


i set a dozen twelve step traps

by postcardmystery



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-16
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:58:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/postcardmystery/pseuds/postcardmystery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chaos theory, Frase calls him, his eyebrow playing at polite and his mouth full of all those words that Ray’s never going to know, never even going to understand. </p><p>“That ‘sposed to mean somethin’ t’me?” he says, and Fraser, mouth twisting in that way of his, says, “No. But, then, I suppose that’s rather the point, isn’t it?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	i set a dozen twelve step traps

Boxing is dancing, is Chicago, and maybe that should be the other way around, but probably not, probably not at all, because that’s the game, all in, all in and you can’t lose, he can’t lose, but Stella, but Chicago, but his feet moving over a floor, whisky in his veins and and and— just keep moving, that’s the only rule.

 

 

They used to call him  _snake-hips_ , back in his punk days, a bass guitar he didn’t really give two shits about hanging from his shoulder, bruised fingers moving over the strings, and he never learned, he never learned, the other boys got their girls to bring them plectrums, but he played and he screamed and his fingers bled, red smeared over the back of his neck and through the white-blond of his hair at the end of every single night.

“You high, or somethin’?” said someone, sometime, somewhere, and he pulled his lips back from his teeth, gave the grin he’s still known for, said, “Kinda, yeah.”

 

 

 _Chaos theory_ , Frase calls him, his eyebrow playing at polite and his mouth full of all those words that Ray’s never going to know, never even going to understand. 

“That ‘sposed to mean somethin’ t’me?” he says, and Fraser, mouth twisting in that way of his, says, “No. But, then, I suppose that’s rather the point, isn’t it?”

 

 

The bass felt like sex, like fingers tingling up his spine, twanging through his feet, the floor shaking every time he pulled at his strings. The rhythm crackled beneath his skin, and he used to throw his head back, feel the sweat trickle down his throat, howl and howl and spit into the audience until his mouth went dry.

It’s not the same, being a cop.

Correction.

Those morons gave him a gun, didn’t they?

 

 

“Can’t stand still, don’t even fuckin’ ask me to, man,” says Ray, to Fraser’s open mouth, to words not yet spoken, but they’re  _going_  to be, they always say them, eventually, given enough time.

Ray paces and rubs at his face and at knuckles that are still split, throws glance after glance to the laceration through Fraser’s eyebrow - “You should have seen the other gentleman,” was all Fraser would say, mysterious as usual - and Fraser frowns, says, “I wasn’t going to ask you to, Ray.”

“Yeah,” says Ray, because he’s heard that before, he’s heard that every time, “Right.”

 

 

Chicago has a rhythm, because all cities do. A beat cop is— well, that’s self-explanatory. He wears leather and he bleaches his hair and Stella hated it, all of it, hated the way he drops his ‘g’s and swallows his vowels, the fact that she could dress him up nice but he was still a dirty dog in sheep’s clothing, clothing that ain’t never gonna fit.

Chicago has a rhythm, and so does he. He is what he is, and he never drops it once he’s got it. Stella, it turned out, wasn’t so good at keeping time, after all.

 

 

He worries that bracelet between long, thin fingers, says, “I gotta tell you something, Frase.”

“Very well,” says Fraser, turning the full force of his focused attention on Ray, “What is it, Ray?”

“I’m queer,” says Ray, “Whaddya think of that?”

Fraser swallows, says, “I’m not really sure that’s up to me, Ray.”

“Ain’t up t’anybody else,” says Ray, and this doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t hurt that he took one step forward and Fraser took two steps back, it doesn’t it doesn’t it doesn’t—

“I think I like you just the way you are,” says Fraser, and it’s the truth, which hits Ray so, so much harder than the worst case scenarios he’s been running for weeks.

“Oh,” says Ray, almost lost for words, but only  _almost_ , “Guess that’s buddies, ain’t it?”

“If you say so,” says Fraser, with that smile that means Ray’s still being a little slow, but Fraser isn’t going to take it upon himself to enlighten him, not just yet.

 

 

A fight’s a fight, the tap-slap-fall to the beat that Ray’s always known best, no matter how many dance classes he’s taken, and a fight is a fight, Fraser blurring at his back into the man who’s otherwise just a story, the crazy, stonecold, bare-knuckle fighter, the man who can live in a wilderness and need nothing, need no one, but but  _but_ —

“Thanks,” says Ray, and Fraser grins, says, “Oh, it was nothing.”

 

 

Cities have rhythms, but so does everywhere, everything, everyone, and Ray feeds Dief when Fraser isn’t looking, slips on his shades, starts the engine, says, “Babe, I’m gonna need ya t’hold onto your hat.”


End file.
